


an exception to the rule

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Autumn, Car Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 03, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved Billy Hargrove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 01:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: He hasn’t been here in a while, at least in person. Dirt on his tennis shoes, Billy treads the pale earth, dragging his feet, kicking up dust. On autopilot, it feels like—he doesn’t recognize his limbs, his legs, can’t feel anything other than his heart beating in his chest, and a chill he can’t escape. Lingering, festering—taking over.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 13
Kudos: 261





	an exception to the rule

_He hasn’t been here in a while, at least in person. Dirt on his tennis shoes, Billy treads the pale earth, dragging his feet, kicking up dust. On autopilot, it feels like—he doesn’t recognize his limbs, his legs, can’t feel anything other than his heart beating in his chest, and a chill he can’t escape. Lingering, festering—taking over. _

_Below—maybe a hundred feet, if he was really lucky—stagnant water sits at the bottom of the quarry; Billy can’t help but stare from over the edge, at the moon reflecting off the glassy surface, the water calming—beckoning. His fingers twitch. His legs ache to run, to do something other than stand on the precipice, looking down. _

_It’d be easy, he tells himself. Just get it over with, take himself out of the equation. No one would remember him, anyway. No one even came to the hospital after the incident, aside from Max. No one left cards, no one called—no one looked him in the eye on the first day of senior year, either. If he disappeared, no one would think anything of it. Just another drifter, eaten by the world and spat back out just as he came. _

_A wreck—a heap of blood and bone and low self-esteem. _

_ He won’t lie and say it’s never crossed his mind. But for some reason he can’t even possibly explain, he keeps living, despite the pain in his chest and the dizzy spells, the days where he can’t drag himself out of bed, the bruises stubbornly clinging and refusing to fade. Not anymore, though. Nothing matters anymore, nothing but this moment, and the October winds rattling the trees, scattering dying leaves. _

_Billy hasn’t known peace since California. What he feels when he steps off the edge frees him—_

And leaves him staring at the ceiling, heart in his throat and stomach clenched painfully. Bright light pours in through the open blinds, furthering the ache behind his eyes, a wonderful start to the day. Billy takes a few breaths to steady himself before pushing the sweat-soaked covers off his body; unsteadily, he stands and crosses the room, opening the en suite door wide enough to step inside—and promptly hurls last night’s alcohol into the sink.

His skin burns. His throat, even worse when he finishes, every inch of his body shaking. In the dark, he stands before the basin, head bowed, knuckles white where he grabs hold of the counter’s edge. Hair falls into his face. Sick doesn’t even describe how he feels; he might as well be dead, for real, this time.

“Are you okay?” Max asks from the other side of the door, not quite stepping inside. Billy wouldn't let her anyway, not with the way his head is swimming, bile on his tongue. What he needs is to go back to bed, preferably never to wake up again.

“Two minutes,” Billy rasps, in shock at the sound of his own voice. His stomach turns again, but he keeps it down with force. “Give me two minutes.”

Thankfully, Max waits before speaking again. For what feels like hours, Billy stands there, waiting for his heart to calm and his stomach to settle long enough for him to open his eyes. If this is a hangover, then it’s the worst he’s ever had. The dream—nightmare, actually—weighs heavy on his mind, bearing down on his shoulders and everything else. Suicide isn’t an option. He’s not… _weak_, Neil would call him. He’s strong, he has his head on straight, he’s trying to turn his life around. So why, even in his waking hours, is it all he can think about?

“I gotta get out of here,” Billy says eventually, backing into the wall with both hands over his eyes. Not that he can see anything in the first place, aside from a sliver of Max’s reflection in the mirror, and the light at her back. This house might as well be a jail cell, his own personal hell since the doctors ruled him out for any and all strenuous activity for at least six months. Three later, and he can barely stand being in his own body. “I gotta… Don’t know where, but I…” He stops, opens one eye to Max’s reflection. “Don’t you have school?”

“It’s Saturday, dweeb,” Max retorts with an eye roll. She inside, never once moving to the light on. “You slept all morning. It’s noon.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, thumps his head against the wall. Just what he planned to do all day, wake up from a nightmare and puke up his guts. “That’s even worse.”

“You’re telling me,” Max huffs and crosses her arms. “I have homework, which you said you were gonna help me with.”

Blinking, Billy runs a shaking hand through his hair. He needs a shower; he can still smell perfume and cologne on his skin, none of it his own. “Shit,” he moans and sinks to the floor, head between his knees. The floor is cooler, he thinks. Maybe he’ll just sleep here all day, in the dark on the cold, hard tile. “I’m sorry—”

“Don't start.” Sighing, Max sits in front of him, resting a hand in his curls. Petting, almost, if Max were any bit affectionate with him. Her touch steadies him, keeps him from hurling on his feet. “Look, here’s how you can make it up to me. I’m supposed to go over to Steve’s house today, because we all talked him into letting us have a study party—”

“Harrington?” Billy croaks, heart panging for an entirely different reason.

“Yeah, that Steve.” Max shakes her head. “But I need you to drive me. And he’s got like, a big house, so he’d probably let you crash if you’re nice to him.”

_Yeah, nice_, Billy thinks. _Nice won’t fix the crater in my car_. But it will get him out of this house and away from the impending verbal abuse Neil most definitely has laid out for him. Loch Nora is close anyway; if need be, Max can skate home. “Fine,” he shudders a sigh. “Give me like… five minutes.”

“Sweet.”

Graceful on her feet, Max leaves the room without a sound, leaving Billy to his thoughts once again. If he can stand, then he can pack a bag and leave for a few nights, until he gets his head on straight. If he can leave, then he can sleep. _One step at a time_, he reminds himself. The last thing he wants to do is crash on the drive over. A voice in the back of his head urges him to. He elects to ignore it, and stands on shaky legs. The dark blots out his reflection, and for once, he’s grateful for the fact that he doesn’t have to see himself like this.

He rinses the sink before he leaves. No one needs to know about this, and he most certainly doesn’t need to worry about it when he comes back. _If_, his mind supplies.

_I’ll be back_, Billy tells himself. _I have to_.

-+-

Fall attacked Hawkins somewhere around late September, the hot summer nights replaced with bone-chilling cold within the span of a few hours. Orange and red leaves litter the streets with Halloween only weeks away, scattering when the Camaro rolls over top of them. The brisk air gusting through the windows clears Billy’s senses, keeping him just on the edge of alert. Passing out would be a bad idea, as much as he wants to, and the Camaro may be pure American steel, but it won’t survive bowling through a pine at top speed.

Besides, he still has to pay off the first repair bill—buying another car is out of the question.

“Make a left here,” Max says from the passenger seat, like Billy doesn't drive by the Harrington household every day on his way to school. For once, he stays quiet and listens, only out of fear of hurling in his car. The world is too bright, even with sunglasses, and the noise from the motor grates on his remaining nerves, coupled with Max’s instructions.

By some miracle, he manages to park in Harrington’s driveway, in front of the two story certifiable mansion he’s longed for somedays, white picket fence and all. A masterfully manicured lawn, sculpted hedges, a driveway without a single crack. Oh, to have that much money.

Max rushes out of the Camaro first, sprinting across the driveway by the time Billy even opens his door. Bag slung over his shoulder, he steps out directly into a gust of wind; he holds his breath to keep from gagging. _Just a few more steps_, he thinks, slamming the door closed. _Walk up there, and you’ll be fine—_

Fine is an understatement. Fine is being able to greet someone with a simple hello, or a jab at their ego, not hurling into their hedges the minute they open the door. “Oh, come on, man,” Steve grouses, hands on his hips. Whatever his face looks like, Billy has no clue, on account of the mess he just made in a holly bush. “I know you were wasted last night, but do that at your own house.”

“I did,” Billy complains, spitting. _Gross_.

“Anyway,” Max sidetracks. “Are they here yet?”

“Basement,” Steve replies—and promptly yells, presumably after Max rushes inside, “and don’t get crumbs everywhere like last time!”

_Last time_. What have Max and all of her friends been doing over here so often? Head spinning, Billy puts the thought out of his mind and stands up, covering both eyes. “I feel like I got ran over. Again.”

“Ha ha,” Steve says, bland. Billy almost jumps when Steve touches his shoulder, too soft to be remotely real. A dark spot mars his throat. _Where did he get that_? “You okay? Other than the whole…” Steve gestures to last night’s clothes. Only then does Billy realize how rumpled he looks, and how much alcohol soaks the leg of his jeans. “When was the last time you showered?”

“When was the last time you slept?” Billy shoots back before he can stop his tongue.

Rolling his eyes, Steve directs him toward the door. “Come on, you look like death warmed over. There’s a couple bedrooms upstairs, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Admittedly, he is. The fact that Steve is offering out of the goodness of his heart—or pity, most likely—is something Billy can barely understand, even sober. Despite that, he follows Steve inside and through the showroom-esque living room, all white furniture and marble floors, and up a curved set of stairs, onto the second floor visible from the front entry. Every inch of the Harrington home—_estate_—looks like it came straight out of a catalog, or a film set, from the vaulted ceilings to the pale walls, with floors that echo every time he takes a step.

The top landing splits into several wings, one of which Steve leads him down, into what could be called a guest suite. Here, Billy finds a bedroom with an adjoining office, and a bathroom that leads into another bedroom. Both with sheets that haven’t been touched in a while, desks dusty with disuse, televisions with remotes hidden away in nightstands.

“Bathroom’s right there,” Steve says, quieter now that his voice doesn’t echo off of every wall. He walks over to close the drapes, bathing the room in darkness. _Thank God_. “You need anything, pills, water?”

“A medic, probably,” Billy jokes. Steve doesn’t take the bait. “Whatever you got that’ll kill this headache. Feel like a jackhammer’s setting up shop behind my eyes.”

Steve nods. He lingers by the door while Billy sets his duffel down and flops onto the bed, face buried in soft linens. _Nice_. “Give me a couple minutes,” Steve says, probably fidgeting, probably looking for any excuse to stay. And Billy would let him, any other day. Now, all he wants to do is sleep, preferably for the next century. “Don’t pass out until I get back, okay?”

“Whatever, mom,” Billy muffles into the bedding. Steve’s subsequent huff makes his stomach flutter in ways he doesn’t want to think about later—giddy, if he had to put a word to it. _I get to sleep in Harrington’s bed_, he lies to himself. Just a guest bed—not Steve’s bed, but same difference.

Either way, as soon as Steve disappears, Billy toes off his shoes and crawls under the blankets, blissfully warm in the face of autumn bearing down outside. His body lets go shortly before his brain, and by the time Steve returns, Billy is well on his way to passing out. Steve must creep closer, because the last thing Billy remembers is a glass being set down on the nightstand, and a hand petting through his hair, all the way to his nape.

-+-

The sun is still high in the sky when Billy surfaces again, the pressure behind his eyes lighter, no longer overbearing. For a few minutes, he just lies there and stares at the inside of his eyelids, listening to the steady hum of the heater working through the vents, voices carrying through the cavernous hallways. The bed shifts at his side—_Someone is here_.

On instinct, Billy reaches out from beneath the sheets and sits up, grabbing hold of the first thing he can find—Steve’s shirt, incidentally. “Holy shit, dude,” Steve balks and raises his hands, palms bared. “I was just sitting here—”

Heart racing, Billy lets him go—but not before shoving him for his trouble, the only sane thing he can think to do. “Can’t sneak up on a guy like that,” he grunts. “Fuck are you doing up here anyway?”

Steve sighs, frustrated in a way Billy feels deep in his bones. “Kids kicked me out of my own basement. It’s my house, why can’t I go wherever I want?”

Billy chuckles, falling back into bed. Whatever this mattress is, he’ll certainly miss it when he has to go back home. Hopefully, not any time soon. “Beats me. Don’t remember being that much of a little shit at their age.”

“Sure you don't,” Steve chides and pats his shoulder.

Here in the light, the bruise to Steve’s throat stands out even more, a mottled purple concentrated in one spot. “Where’d you get the hickey?” Billy asks and reaches up, thumbing the mark.

If anything, Steve flushes even redder, turning his head away. “How much do you remember about last night?”

Last night. “Something about some party at the quarry?” he says, half a question. “Homecoming?”

“Yeah, homecoming.” Nodding, Steve rubs the bruise, like touching it will magically rid it from his skin. “Tommy called me from a payphone, said you were too plastered to drive, so I went out there to get you.”

Billy hums, leaning up on his elbows. His shirt slumps off to the side, still unbuttoned from last night, and Steve looks. At what, Billy doesn’t know, until Steve reaches over and undoes the final few buttons, pushing the article aside to reveal—more bruises. Not from a fight, but from someone’s mouth in a fit of passion. Looking them over, it finally clicks, and a red flush paints Billy’s chest just at the thought. He made out with someone last night—but not just any someone.

“Shit.” Billy smirks, head thrown back. “Oh, I gotta stop drinking, ‘cause I don’t remember this at all.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Not exactly what I like to hear, but it’s par for the course considering.”

“Baby, baby.” Rolling over, Billy urges Steve onto his back, propping a knee between his thighs. Steve looks up at him, brow furrowed, red heating his cheeks. “If you wanted it, you should’ve just asked.”

Before he can sneak in a kiss, Steve claps his hand over Billy’s face, a finger nearly lodged up his nose. “No offense? But you just destroyed one of my bushes. There’s a toothbrush on the counter.”

“Come on,” Billy muffles into his hand.

“You heard me.” And Steve pushes him back, crawling out and away with the grace of a drunken sailor. “And I need you to drive me back to the quarry. Kinda drove you home last night.”

So that explained how he got home in one piece. How he got into bed is another question entirely, one that Steve probably has the answer to. “Next time you haul my ass home, just bring me here,” Billy teases.

Steve thumbs toward the bathroom. “Just do it, will you? And while you’re at it, you smell like the bonfire.”

_There was a bonfire_? “Man.” Sitting up, Billy rakes a hand through his hair. Next time, no alcohol on top of painkillers. _If only it didn’t feel so good._

-+-

The closer they drive to the quarry, the more uneasy Billy feels, and this time, not from the alcohol. The world no longer spins in his periphery, his stomach no longer threatens to wage war, and all—seemingly—is right with the world. Except for the dream. The one thing he can’t shake, no matter how many times he goes through the motions. Sleeps, eats, takes his medication, none of it eases his minds or quells the shake in his hands, from the moment he startles awake to when he finally manages to pass out long after the sun sets.

How he’s surviving right now, Billy has no clue. The one thing he does know, is that booze doesn't help, as much as he wants it to.

Steve drives with the windows down most of the way, the cool wind keeping Billy alert. Absently, he fidgets with the cuffs of his sweatshirt—Steve’s sweatshirt, with Hawkins High emblazoned across the front—and watches the world pass by, the quiet streets of Hawkins replaced with winding, forest-lined roads. Leaves scatter in the breeze, several bouncing off the windshield and flying either into the Camaro or alongside it.

It would be nice, a beautiful day even, if this morning didn't weigh so heavily on his mind. Now, with the sun beginning its descent, he can’t help but dread the coming night, and what sleep might bring.

The quarry isn’t exactly far from town, but by the time they arrive, gold is already creeping through the trees, and a chill seeps into everything it touches, namely Billy’s hands. Indeed, right where they left it last night, Steve’s BMW sits in the tree line, windows left open and several cans of Pabst sitting crushed atop the hood. “Come on,” Steve complains and steps out of the Camaro, slamming the door behind him.

All the while, Billy watches from the passenger seat, rubbing his hands together until his fingers warm, even incrementally. He should stay inside—he shouldn’t leave the Camaro, but he does, Steve’s nagging over the state of his car and nature his only company. Birds chip in the canopy; squirrels skitter away at his presence, ambling up tree trunks. His shoes crunch gravel and dirt, heart beat growing louder the closer he walks.

He really _could_ do it, given the chance. Make the pain stop, end the nightmares, just forget everything. All he would have to do is walk forward five, maybe ten steps, and take the leap. It would only hurt for a few seconds, if he lived that long; if the impact didn't kill him, then drowning would. And if that didn’t—

“Hey.” Steve claps a hand to Billy’s shoulder, apparently having learned nothing in the last hour. Less than predictably, Billy jerks out of his hold and spins, rushing backward in the process, until his heels hit the edge. Before he can fall, Steve grabs him by the wrist and yanks him forward, back to safety—and Billy promptly dry heaves into the dirt, arms over his stomach, heart in his throat.

_Shit_, he repeats on a loop, until his breathing evens out and he can do something other than stand there and shake himself to death. _Shit, shit, shit_.

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve repeats just as often, now kneeling—when did he end up on the ground?—with a hand to Billy’s bicep. A wild look crosses his face, panic settled deep in his eyes. Billy almost died—_I almost died, because of him_. “Are you—Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

“No,” Billy croaks, a hand over his mouth. _Breathe_, he tells himself, eyes pinched shut. _Just breathe_. “Panic attack.”

“Shit,” Steve hisses. Still, he doesn’t let go, and Billy anchors himself to the soft press of Steve’s thumb swiping over the soft cotton of the sweatshirt, warmth bleeding into his skin. Something so simple—it shouldn’t calm him, as much as it does. And from Harrington, no less. “That what happened this morning?”

A dumb question—the dumbest, if Billy had to rank it—but Billy nods, opening his eyes. Shivers wrack his body, not entirely from the setting sun. What he needs is a blanket and another nap, preferably while comatose, where the nightmares can’t creep in. What he doesn’t expect, is for Steve to draw him into a hug, arms around Billy’s neck, his body impossibly warm against his own.

And he can’t move. Can’t do anything other than feel the cold press of Steve’s ear against the side of his head, a hand stroking through his unbrushed hair, a heart trying to sync with his own. He tenses, raking his fingers through the dirt, under his nails. “Jeez, dude,” Steve says, still rooted in place. “When was the last time someone hugged you?”

That’s a good question, one that brings tears to Billy’s eyes. “Years,” he says, shaky. One-handed, he fists the back of Steve’s coat and presses his eyes into Steve’s shoulder in a desperate attempt to _not cry, don’t be a fucking baby_—but he can’t. Fear turns to anger, then to despair, his emotions firing one after one until all he can hear is blood rushing through his ears and his own sobs, echoing through the trees. “Everything hurts,” he admits, gasping for breath. “Fucking—everything hurts.”

Steve shushes him, holds him tighter. “I know,” he soothes. He strokes a hand down Billy’s spine, then back up, a failing attempt to keep him calm. “Trust me, I get it. There’s… There’s shit going on in this town, man—”

“Not that.” Shaking his head, Billy sinks his nails in, scraping down Steve’s back; Steve doesn’t make a noise, but his body reacts, back pulled taut. “Not—Don’t care about that shit, Harrington. I’m talking—I shouldn’t be alive. I should be six feet under right now, and I’d _like_ it. But I—” He stops, swallows. “I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna die, Harrington, I don’t wanna die—”

“I know,” Steve repeats. “I know.”

“I don’t wanna die,” Billy rasps, nearly unintelligible through the tears. “I just wanna stop hurting. I don’t wanna hurt, I don’t—”

“Shh,” Steve whispers, holds him tighter. He shivers, too, right along with Billy, and halfheartedly, Billy hopes he feels even half as bad, just so he can feel a fraction of what it’s like to survive certain death, only to be left to suffer in the aftermath. To wish every night, that God would just take him.

_Just make it stop_, he begs, open-mouthed and terrified. _Make it all stop, please_.

-+-

Steve’s pantry is… remarkably empty, considering he must live here alone. All that money and space at his fingertips, and all he has to eat are several boxes of cereal and pasta. And, apparently, half of an uneaten pizza in the fridge. “Score,” Billy says and grabs the box, gingerly closing the door behind him.

Steve went to bed a few hours ago, leaving Billy alone in his oversized mansion of a home with full control of the television and the stove and whatever else he could get his hands on. Namely, the pizza the kids presumably left behind. Max and the others still there by the time they pulled into the driveway, and Billy promptly passed out in the spare bedroom, blissfully unconscious for a few precious hours.

Until now. A day without food, and he can’t sit still anymore, not with the gnawing hunger tearing at his stomach. He could spend the extra minute to microwave it, but cold pizza has never disappointed him—and it’s free, no less.

Halfway through two slices and contemplating a third, his blood runs cold at the sound of footsteps descending the stairs from somewhere within the house. Close by, from what he can tell. The thought of Steve’s parents appearing out of thin air sours his stomach, or even more implausible, something _else_, something that isn’t there, but the memory remains around every corner, _lurking_.

Instead, before Billy can fully devolve into panic, Steve appears from around the corner, hair in complete disarray, lines from his pillow creased into half of his face. Something heavy and bat-shaped sits in his hand, but the second he catches sight of Billy, he leans it against the side of the refrigerator, where it slumps to the floor in a clatter.

_Wow_. “Smooth, Harrington,” Billy says and resumes his previous pace, if only to stave off the sudden rush of adrenaline. It works, mostly. “Something got you spooked?”

“Kinda?” Steve says, then cocks his hip against the island. An arm over his stomach, he smothers a yawn with his fist. “Heard the fridge and forgot you were here. You don’t really make much noise, man.”

_There’s a reason for that_, Billy thinks, but shoves it aside. “Forgot to eat yesterday, and I need to take my meds anyway,” he says. Pushing the box towards Steve, he pulls a plastic bottle from the pocket of his sweatpants and shakes it. “I’d be rolling in cash if I didn’t need them to, y’know, live.”

“What’re you even on, anyway?” Steve asks. He eyes the remaining slices before taking one, demolishing half of it in one bite_. Nice_.

Billy rifles through the fridge before speaking again, coming back with half a bottle of red wine. Not exactly fine dining, but it might help him sleep if he gets enough into his system. “Calcium, mostly,” he says and pops the cork, throwing back a shot right from the bottle. Steve makes a scandalized noise and snatches it away, only to follow suit. So Billy isn’t the only one with nightmares and abnormal sleeping patterns—and bad coping mechanisms, apparently. “Doctors have me on an anticoagulant and blood thinners, and NSAIDs for the pain.” He stops, laughs. “Pretty sure if you cut me open right now, I’d die on the spot.”

“Shit,” Steve hisses and passes back the bottle. “Wine probably won’t help anything either, y’know.”

“I need a nightcap anyway.” Shaking out whatever pills he needs, Billy pops them into his mouth and chases it with alcohol. He sets the bottle back onto the island, loud enough to echo through the house. Steve jumps in the dark, just enough to catch Billy’s attention. “Seriously, you always this jumpy?”

“Wouldn’t you be too?” Steve says, and—Billy doesn’t want to have this conversation. What happened four months ago is in the past, where it should be. They’re alive and healthy—at least one of them is—and the world is right on its axis. For now, anyway. Who knows what the morning may bring. Maybe that’s why Steve acts the way he does, like each and every second might be his last.

That, Billy is all too familiar with. That, he never thought he’d share with someone else, let alone a boy in the middle of nowhere Indiana. Something about shared trauma, or whatever.

_I’m used to it, though_, Billy could say. Instead, he settles for sidling up to Steve, backing him into the island; he braces both hands on either side of Steve’s hips, just to feel Steve sigh. If he wanted, he could lift Steve up and stand between his spread knees, like he’s wanted to do for ages—like he did last night, apparently, the memory unfortunately long gone.

Steve doesn’t fight back when Billy steps into his space, lips close, hips closer. Beer takes a while to get into his system, always has—wine, though, has him buzzed with just a few swallows. Buzzed enough to nose up the frail skin of Steve’s throat, lips just barely gracing his skin. “Marked me up pretty good, didn’t you?” he asks, and feels Steve nod. “How long’ve you wanted to do that?”

“Dude, it’s like, midnight,” Steve sidetracks. He doesn’t lean away, not like Billy expected; he just stands there, hands hanging limp at his sides, like he doesn’t exactly know where to put them. Like he isn’t allowed to touch. “How much do you even remember?”

“Not a lot,” Billy admits. The second he touches his lips to Steve’s pulse, Steve gasps, and a hand shoots out, fingers bunching up the hem of his tank top. _Touch me_, Billy all but screams. _I’d let you pull my hair, if you wanted_. “Shame, because I don’t think I’d forget those lips.”

Billy kisses the ruddy-colored bruise before increasing the pressure, scraping his teeth along the mark. Steve’s hand creeps northward, settling between Billy’s shoulder blades while Billy sucks fresh color into his skin. “Hargrove,” Steve sighs, strained. He sags a bit, and Billy pins him, hips flush. “You—We were drunk off our asses.”

“Doesn’t look like you were complaining,” Billy chides once he lets go. He thumbs the mark, listening to Steve hiss. “In fact, I think you got off on it.”

“Come on,” Steve huffs. His grip relaxes, fingers now rubbing soft circles over Billy’s shirt. “It was just—a fling. It didn’t mean anything. You just looked… lonely, like someone kicked a puppy—”

“I’m not a dog,” Billy groans, then breaks into a laugh. “What, can a guy be a sad drunk every once in a while?”

“Not when they’re you.” A warm hand settles between his pecs, neither pushing him away nor pulling him closer. Billy stands there, watching the wonder fade from Steve’s face, eyelids drooping. His heart races; he wishes Steve couldn’t feel it. “Max always says you’re fine when I ask, but you’re not, are you? I mean, you’re still in school and all, so you’re not stuck in bed—”

“God, sometimes I wish I was.” Reluctantly, Billy steps out of Steve’s hold, backing into the refrigerator. Steve doesn’t follow him; a chill sweeps through Billy without his warmth. “I’m as good as you’re gonna get for a guy with a hole in his chest,” he sighs, running both hands through his hair. He needs a shower; smoke from the bonfire still lingers in his curls. “I’m fine, Harrington, don’t worry your pretty little head off.”

“I’m not worried,” Steve says, a bald faced lie. If he were worried, he wouldn’t be downstairs interrupting Billy’s midnight snack. “I just wanted to know if you’re good. Haven’t really seen you in a few weeks.”

More like two months, but same difference. Billy spent the better part of his summer in the hospital being hovered over, like the nurses were waiting for him to croak on the spot. And then he came home, and Neil didn’t care. Susan at least looked at him, but the most he heard out of her were a few words about the weather, or if he needed Aspirin. Life in Hawkins is bad enough, but the tension in the air keeps him on edge, the threat of violence taking up residence around every corner.

Neil won’t touch him anymore. Sometimes, Billy wishes he would.

“I’m gonna tell you something,” Billy starts, struggling to keep his voice measured. _Don’t puke this time_, he tells himself. “And if you say a word about this, you’re a dead man.”

“Scout’s honor,” Steve says, holding up three fingers. Billy rolls his eyes. With that much money, Billy doubts Steve ever even set foot in the woods as a child.

Steeling his nerves, Billy pushes off of the fridge, once again stepping into Steve’s space. Their foreheads touch; Steve bites his lip. “I’m not messed up ‘cause I got hung over. I’m messed up because I’ve spent the last four months trying not to kill myself.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Hargrove, what—”

“Something’s wrong with my head.” Billy taps his temple for emphasis, acutely aware of how insane he looks right now, confessing one of his darkest secrets. “Like, when that thing took me, it never left. And it’s gone, ‘cause I puked up sludge for a week straight. But it’s still in here. I feel it, like it’s telling me to just get it over with.” He stops, ducks his head. Steve stares at him like he’s lost his mind. Billy really thinks he has. “Every night, I dream about it.”

“Billy,” Steve murmurs.

Billy cuts him off, ignores the fact that Steve just called him by his _first name_. “Last night, I jumped into the quarry,” he says, voice wavering. “Then you freaked me out, and I almost did. Tell me, is this what surviving is supposed to feel like? ‘Cause I got blood on my hands, there’s graves on the other side of town with no bodies in them, and I did that. And I—I should’ve been one of them.

“It picked me,” Billy says, fisting the front of Steve’s nightshirt. Steve moves willingly, their noses brushing. “It picked me, and it didn’t take me with it. Why am I still here?”

“You know I can’t—You know I don’t know,” Steve says, a bit frantic. Billy just shakes his head. “I get it, though.”

Billy squares his jaw. “Do you?”

“Yeah.” Nodding, Steve covers Billy’s hand with his own. “You think that was the first time I’ve seen monsters? There’s more of them, and they’ve come after me and the kids. You should’ve seen them, they’ve got these…” He stops, presses his fingers into his eyes. “I can’t get them out of my head. The gate’s closed, El and Joyce said so, but what if it’s—What if they come back? Sometimes I hear something outside, or I look at my pool, and I start sweating, and I…

“I get it, okay? What it’s like to almost die.” Steve looks down, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Despite everything, Billy aches to touch him, to ease the burden, to take on his pain. “These last two years hasn’t been exactly a cakewalk.”

_You’re telling me_, Billy thinks. “I got an idea,” he says, and pulls Steve’s hand away from his face. “You wanna go for a drive?”

Steve just looks at him, lips parted, brow furrowed. “Where? Dude, it’s like… late. And dark.”

Right. Probably not the best suggestion, considering what Steve just told him, but Billy can’t sit still right now, his constant need to _move_ overriding his better decision making. “That lake outside of town, you ever been?”

Steve snorts, his shoulders shaking. “Dude, it’s for hookups, and we’re not—”

“Have you seen what you did to my chest?” Billy asks, jabbing at Steve’s breastbone. “We’re something, alright. Besides, we’re both awake, and it’s Saturday night. No one in their right mind’s asleep right now.”

_We should be, but we’re not_.

It takes him a minute, but Steve eventually agrees with some level of hesitation. “One condition,” Steve says, and steps away, only to grab just what he dropped on the floor minutes before. That nail-studded bat that’s featured so prominently in his nightmares, where someone—Steve, mostly, but sometimes Max—scatters his brains on the pavement. “This is coming with us.”

Sucking in air, Billy nods. “Long as the damn thing goes in the trunk, then we’re golden.”

-+-

Lover’s Lake sits a few miles outside of Hawkins proper, down an old dirt road previously used by loggers. As soon as the lab opened up, according to Steve, all access roads were blocked by gates; now with it gone and the barbed wire fences demolished, anyone who even remembers that the roads are there can travel freely, either for recreation or sport.

Or, as Billy has come to know in the past, to tumble into the backseat with the first warm body he can find.

In this case, Harrington plays the role of the first boy Billy has kissed since California. All long limbs and teased hair, Steve rakes his fingers up Billy’s back, his lips doing absolutely filthy things to Billy’s libido. Three other cars sit parked around the edge of the lake, all widely spaced with windows fogged under the moonlight. Here, no one cares just who’s fucking who—here, Billy can take his time without worrying about just who might be watching from outside.

Steve tastes like the spearmint gum he keeps in the BMW’s glovebox and smells even better, earthy with a hint of cologne he must’ve snuck in before they left. Heatedly, Billy cups Steve’s cheeks before tilting his chin, mouthing heated kisses down his unblemished throat. Steve’s hand grabs Billy by the seat of his jeans, then travels up, to where it yanks his tank top free of his pants.

An unpleasant warmth curls through Billy’s chest, now that he’s aware enough to protest. But Steve saw him shirtless last night, and apparently didn’t have a problem with sucking bruises everywhere he pleased. “You really wanna do this?” Billy asks, then nips at Steve’s throat, earning a gasp. “Finish where we left off?”

“Only reason we stopped was ‘cause you were out after curfew,” Steve huffs, which—sounds about right. Back in bed by midnight, or else.

Whatever the else was, Billy hasn’t bothered to find out. And, nowadays, he finds that he likes to sleep, probably more than anybody else he knows. Napping means he doesn’t have to suffer through pitying looks and hushed whispers. Napping means he doesn’t have to deal with his family or whatever few friends he has left, or anything else.

Napping means he gets to rest, most of all.

Though, being awake has its advantages. Namely, Steve’s hands in his shirt, tugging at the fabric. Finally—reluctantly—Billy sits up and pulls the article off, revealing bruise after bruise and the silvered scars marring his chest, all for an audience of one.

He doesn’t give Steve the satisfaction of touching him, of marveling over his skin like he probably wants. He pulls Steve into a kiss instead, delighting in how pliant he is, how every kiss seems like the best one ever. _Such a playboy_, Billy thinks and grabs a fistful of Steve’s hair. He tugs, ever so slightly, and Steve moans, fingers twitching where he clings to Billy’s back.

Fingers trace over ridges, _battle scars_ as Steve has called them in the past. Billy flushes, hiding his shame with every kiss, every hint of tongue. He could do this for hours, with a leg over Steve’s waist and a foot in the footwell, hands on him, groping, caressing. Whatever it is, Billy wants, and if the bulge in Steve’s jeans is any indication, he’s not the only one.

“You ever done this before?” Steve says when Billy goes for his shirt, tugging it over Steve’s shoulders with little finesse. “I mean, obviously you’ve been in the backseat of a car before—”

“Talk faster,” Billy says, a hand to Steve’s belt buckle.

Steve laughs, head thrown back. “Right, right, _whoa_. You ever—with a guy, y’know.”

Billy could lie. Steve wouldn’t know any different, and besides, the sheer number of girls he’s slept with well-outweighs the guys that’ve taken him to bed. But Steve deserves to know—if they’re in this together, then there can’t be any lies. Not about this. “A few,” Billy says with a shrug. “You got any condoms on you, pretty boy?”

“Fuck, uh.” Sitting up, Steve searches his back pocket, then his front—then the glovebox, when both come up empty. “Shit, I swear I had some—”

“Come on,” Billy complains. Falling back onto his ass, he palms his eyes. This can’t be happening—he was so close to finally getting laid. “You’re telling me that King Steve doesn’t have fucking rubbers in his car?”

“It’s not like I’m having sex on a regular basis over here,” Steve shoots back. He gives up his valiant search and plops back down into his seat, face to the ceiling. “Fuck, can we like—are hand jobs still on the table?”

_Yeah, but I wanted your dick in me_, Billy thinks. “Yeah, yeah,” he huffs and rakes his hands through his hair. “Here, let me.”

Acutely aware of just how hard he is, Billy straddles Steve’s waist and wraps his arms around the headrest. Here, he sits in Steve’s lap with Steve’s hands cradling his hips, every square inch of his skin warm and inviting. Deft fingers skirt up his ribs, and Steve thumbs over his nipples, working them to peaks while Billy sucks in air.

This, actually, might be better than getting naked.

The angle is more awkward than not, and Billy can’t exactly rut against him like he wants, but kissing makes up for it, that and Steve’s hands stroking, keeping him grounded with the contact. At some point, Steve undoes his zipper and pulls him free of his jeans. “Dude, do you ever wear underwear?” Steve says, feigning shock. Billy answers him with a moan and a biting kiss, and ends that conversation before it can take off.

For a while, all Billy can do is kneel and kiss Steve, hips working into the circle of his dry fist. Just when the friction becomes unbearable, Steve lets him go long enough to lick a wet stripe up his palm, and Billy loses himself in a moan when Steve picks up where he left off. “So hot,” Steve says against his cheek, then sucks a mark below his ear, lips driving a shiver all the way to his toes. His cock twitches, spilling precome. “Can I say that?”

“Say whatever you want,” Billy says and shudders, breath caught around a moan. His hair sticks to his forehead around his temples; Steve brushes it out of his face, then pulls him into a kiss, with more tongue than should be allowed.

Billy revels in it, though, nipping Steve’s lower lip between breaths. His nails leave impressions in the leather headrest, and his chest heaves, hips meeting Steve’s pace. He forgot how much he loves this, the feel of a broad hand wrapped around his cock, caressing his skin, molding him just where his partner wants him. Steve takes him apart with a practiced hand, so much so that briefly, Billy wonders if Steve has more experience than he’s letting on. Certainly, he would know; no one at school has ever spoken a word of it, probably for good reason.

He wants to know, though, how Steve got so good, or if he’s just been fantasizing for God knows how long. Impossibly, the thought turns Billy on even more, the idea of Steve jerking off under the covers late at night, all with Billy’s name on his lips. He knows the effect he has on people, has for the last few years—Steve Harrington, though, has been an enigma, at least until now.

“Hot,” Steve says, breath next to scalding against Billy’s mouth. His pace quickens, and Billy bites his lip to keep from shouting when he finally comes, eyes rolling back, knuckles white where he holds onto the seat. Hot come paints Steve’s hand and chest, and Steve works him through the last vestiges of euphoria, even as he pants and jerks and nearly smacks his head on the roof.

Steve kisses him after he comes down, come-soaked hand pressed over his pec, smearing the mess in. _Definitely need a shower now_. “Do you wanna—” Steve starts, then backtracks, the gears visibly turning behind his eyes. “We can go back to my place if you want, I’ve got—stuff.”

“Stuff,” Billy repeats, lazily mouthing at the curve of Steve’s jaw. “The stuff you forgot the first time?”

“Shut up,” Steve groans. Teasingly, Billy reaches between them to feel the definite curve tenting Steve’s jeans, and Steve lets out a broken whine, lips parting. “Wasn’t exactly—thinking we’d—”

“Rule number five,” Billy says, “always be prepared.”

Steve blinks, lips pursed. “What’re the other four?”

Billy laughs, deep in his chest. “Oh, Harrington, wouldn’t you like to know?”

-+-

They could fuck in any room of the house. Steve must have at least six bedrooms and bathrooms, and he has to have some sort of entertaining area, or even a cabana, given the size of his pool. All this space, and they still end up in Steve’s bed, Billy on his stomach with Steve crowding over top of him, hips working in a slow, sinuous grind that has Billy grappling with the pillows, sheets between his teeth.

It’s good. Better than good, if his second hard-on in the hour is any indication. Steve peppers kisses into his shoulders while he moves, cock thick to the point where briefly, Billy wondered if he could actually take it. Now, he can’t get enough—now, he wants more. “Harder,” Billy says, barely a whisper. He lets go of the sheets and leans up on his elbows; Steve lifts him up and sits back on his haunches, arms around Billy’s chest while he thrusts up and _in_, sending Billy’s nerves alight. “Oh fuck, _fuck_—”

“I’m—I’m close,” Steve gasps in his ear. He scrapes his nails down Billy’s chest, over the scars and past his navel, and wraps a hand around Billy’s cock, jerking him off with lube-slick fingers.

Breath coming quicker, Billy falls forward and fists the covers, working his hips to meet Steve’s punishing rhythm. Hands seize his hips, Steve’s pace faltering, his moans rougher, staccatoed—then Steve stills, and Billy feels him come, cock thick and pulsing inside the condom. One, two more strokes and Billy topples after, his moan obnoxiously loud in the quiet of the room, even with Steve’s winded breathing.

Billy collapses first, face-first into the pillows. Steve follows shortly after tossing the condom, and promptly pulls Billy into an embrace that’s more cuddling than hugging. Steve is still hard—they could go again if they wanted, but it’s almost three in the morning, and sleeping off the high sounds like the best idea in the world.

Steve won’t have that, though. As much as Billy wants to avoid discussing _feelings_ or anything of the like, Steve somehow manages to weasel his way into the conversation. “So what does all this…” He motions his one free arm in the interim, the other trapped beneath Billy’s head. “Does this mean anything?”

Letting out a breath, Billy rubs a hand down his face, feels the day-old stubble clinging to his jaw. _Shower_. “Depends,” he says, ignoring the moon shining through the curtains. “If all you want is a casual fuck, then I’m always here for poor decision making. But if you have feelings—”

“So what if I do?” Leaning up, Steve pulls his trapped arm free and looks down at Billy; he traces a finger over Billy’s cheek, tucking a curl behind his ear.

Billy’s face heats. He can’t do feelings, not… Not like he wants. Kissing in public, holding hands, all of it. He craves the attention of a lover, but the world won’t let him enjoy it. Life is cruel, he thinks—too many people are hurting because of who they love, and he’s already been hurt enough. Steve doesn’t deserve to be dragged into the thick of it, as well.

“Just before I graduated, I had an epiphany,” Steve says. Billy closes his eyes; he can’t watch this, can barely listen. “That’s what Robin called it, anyway. Woke up and panicked, and called her, and I said, ‘Holy shit, I think I’m in love with that asshole.’” With a firm hand, Steve pushes Billy onto his back and straddles him, elbows bracketing his head. Still, Billy won’t look. “We were… I think we were good? I mean, you hadn’t tried to kill me in five months, so I took it as a win.”

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?” Billy asks, one eye open.

Steve shakes his head. “I was gonna tell you, before the whole… thing, with the mall. ‘Cause I thought you might’ve liked me too, but you never said anything? Not everyone can read your mind, man.”

“Well, you should learn,” Billy huffs. _It’d save you a lot of trouble if you did_.

“Point is.” Steve presses his thumb and index finger to Billy’s chin. “As dumb as it probably makes me, I like you, Hargrove. Like, love you, even. Think the party the other night made that clear.”

Billy covers his eyes, if not to block out the light, then to ignore the sincerity on Steve’s face. He actually means it—a boy actually likes him, and not just for what’s in his pants. “Sure it’s not just ‘cause I’m a pretty face?”

Steve chuckles, ducking his head. His hair obscures his eyes, and without thinking, Billy brushes it aside. “Pretty sure,” Steve says. “Look, I’m… You don’t gotta like me back, or anything, okay? I’m down if you just wanna fuck every once in a while, but—”

“Will you just—shut up, for two seconds.” A little rough, Billy takes Steve’s face in his hands, pulling him close, their noses brushing. “I’m only gonna say this once,” he says, low, close to threatening. “If you say a word of this to anyone, especially the little nerds you call friends, I’ll knock your teeth out.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but otherwise nods. “Do you really think this is something I’d blab about? It’s not just my ass on the line here, y’know.”

Billy knows. Has known for years, has had it beaten into him a time or two. Steadily, Billy sucks in a breath, then lets it out, lungs aching. “I like you,” he says, all one word. “I shouldn’t, but you’re just so damn pretty, and you let me puke in your bushes—”

“I didn’t let you, come on—”

“—and let me stay in one of your fancy guest rooms. No one’s…” Billy stops, breathes again. “No one’s ever done that for me.” _No one’s ever been nice to me, no strings attached_.

Something soft crosses Steve’s face, too painful to look at. Adoration, or affection, or something equally cloying. “There’s always a room here for you,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Billy’s lips. “Y’know, if you want it.”

_I want it_, Billy thinks. He wants a whole apartment, a house with a white picket fence, a cat that begs for scraps every night and curls up at their feet in the morning. Shame fills his chest, and tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, unshed. “Don’t pity me,” he says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “You should find yourself a nice girl or something, get married. Pop out some kids, I don’t care, just… I’m not worth it.”

“Dude, you totally are.” And Steve kisses him again, full-on, refusing to let up until Billy softens, pliable in his grasp. “You got damage, but you’re good damage. The kind I’d like to get high and shoot the shit with. And once you graduate, the kind I’d like to book cheesy motels and drive to California with.”

_I’ll take you home, if you’ll take me with you_, Steve says with all but his lips. Both of them ignore the tear that falls into Billy’s hairline. “You shouldn’t be so nice to me,” Billy says. “You don’t… You don’t know me like that.”

“I know what I need to,” Steve says.

Their next kiss, Billy drags him into, arms around Steve’s neck, a hand in his mussed hair. Their next kiss, Steve clings to him and drags Billy’s hips into his lap, the promise of more lingering on his tongue.

Their next kiss, Billy doesn’t let go—and never will.

-+-

Sunday morning comes, and Billy sleeps through most of it. He wakes to the smell of breakfast wafting through the open door, and only once his stomach protests does he pull on a pair of sweatpants and amble down the stairs, to where Steve mans the stove, sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder and pants slung low around his hips.

He looks good like this, Billy thinks, and sidles up behind him, arms around his waist. Here, he can—no one will tell him otherwise.

Except for Max sitting at the island, her eyes wide and scandalized. “Maxine—”

“Cross my heart,” Max blurts and crosses her entire front. Billy knows she won’t tell—but still. “You should… Everyone’ll be here soon, so you should probably put a shirt on.”

A shirt—_wait_. “How did you get home yesterday?”

“I drove her,” Steve says, turning all of the burners off. Billy backs away while he pulls three plates out of one of the cabinets, dishing up pancakes and eggs and sausage links and hastily prepared hash browns. Apparently, Billy was looking in the wrong place for food last night. “You were asleep, remember?”

“Don’t remember much when I’m unconscious,” Billy mumbles. Steve pokes him in the ribs; Max rolls her eyes. “So what’d you tell—”

“Just said you were prepping for the SATs,” Max says with a shrug. “Which, you should be doing, by the way. Isn’t the test next week?”

Next week. Where has the time gone? “Fuck,” Billy groans and palms his eyes until he sees stars. “Steve, what’d you get on yours?”

Steve shoots him a look that all but screams _you just called me by my actual name_. “Dude, don’t ask,” he laughs. Passing Max a plate, he hands Billy another. “There’s a reason I’m still in town and not at like, Yale or whatever.”

“You could help him study,” Max quips, to Billy’s glare and Steve’s panic. “Since you’re already here, and all.”

Swallowing, Steve rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, I still got books and everything, if you—If that’s something you’d wanna do. Y’know, while the kids are tearing apart my basement.”

Slowly, Billy nods, cheeks aflame. “If you’re up to it,” he agrees, to Steve’s smirk.

_I’m up for anything_, Steve’s smile says. And really, truly, Billy hopes he’s ready.

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been sitting in my drafts for a few weeks and I FINALLY finished it this week, so here you go! These boys are inhabiting my brain and they won't let me go. OTL
> 
> Title is from the Dwight Yoakam song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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